


Tuesday Drabbles - The RETURN of Reader-Prompt Words

by methylviolet10b



Series: Tuesday Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For over a year now, I've been writing five ACD-verse drabbles every Tuesday, and posting the results that day. After I ran out of reader-supplied prompt words, I made a general appeal - and lo and behold, more readers volunteered fabulous words! And I'm always looking for more words to drabble on, so feel free to send me any that occur to you. :-)</p><p>Some of these drabbles evolved into their own stories; some relate to others; but most just stand alone as 100-word stories. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1/31/2012

  


** Tunnel **

Holmes' sense of direction and in-depth knowledge of London's mazelike series of streets and byways often astonished me. There were parts of London where I am certain there were no accurate maps of the mews, passageways, tunnels, and alleys recorded anywhere except somewhere inside of my friend's head. The portion of his brain-attic devoted to this intimate knowledge of London's secret places must be immense. He rarely ever put a foot wrong.

Rarely.

"We've lost him, Holmes."

"I'm aware of that, thank you, Watson."

"Any idea how to get back to Lestrade and his men?"

"Not at the moment, no."

 

** Rivulet **

"Good Heavens, Holmes!" 

I threw down my newspaper and leaped to my feet at the appalling sight at our sitting-room threshold. Holmes' normally neat, prim clothing was torn and stained, and his coat was missing entirely. One shirt-sleeve was largely ripped away, and the other was spattered with what looked like bloodstains. A rivulet of blood streaked his forehead, and his right eye was nearly swelled shut. 

His left eye, however, twinkled at me, and his lips curved upwards.

"My apologies for my dishabille and for alarming you, Watson. But as the saying goes, you should see the other fellow."

 

** Broken **

"I really don't see why this is necessary."

"And yet you claim to be the most observant man in London."

"I _am_. Well, the second-most observant man, to be absolutely factual about it."

"The second - ? No, never mind. I refuse to be distracted. As a _highly observant_ man, surely you can deduce the necessity of this action."

"Just because I've broken another of Mrs. Hudson's teapots hardly means I am obliged to buy her a silver one."

"It was the _seventh_ in six weeks. If we want to remain at 221B, silver is an absolute necessity. And flowers."

 

** Abbreviation **

The minister droned on interminably. I shifted restlessly in my seat. 

"…while the abbreviation of any life is a cause for grief, it seems doubly so when a man who did such good in the world is cut down in his prime. But let us not dwell on the abridgement of his days. Instead, let us rejoice in his accomplishments, and comfort ourselves in the knowledge that he now resides in the love and peace of God…"

I glanced aside automatically to see Holmes' doubtlessly-ironic reaction.

He wasn't there, of course. Would never be there again.

Mary squeezed my arm.

 

** Corset **

"Are you all right, Watson?"

"A little bruised, perhaps, but otherwise I'm well enough, Holmes. Aside from being tied up and locked in a cellar, that is."

"I'll have you free in a moment. I must say, I was extremely surprised to see you brought in like that. I would have thought that your combat experience would have left you more wary of them."

"Them, yes. Not _her_. I was hardly expecting Miss Donovan to produce a pistol from under her corset."

"Ah, Watson. Always the gentleman, even to your detriment."

"It explains _my_ surprise, yes. How'd she catch _you_?"


	2. 2/7/2012

  


** Indigo **

I had asked Watson for tales of his time in India and Afghanistan. Ever generous, he told me stories of what those lands were like, even though his own memories of his Army service were not entirely happy. He is a more gifted storyteller than I often give him credit for. He managed to convey much of the vivid, alien wonder of those lands, the scents and shades of indigo, saffron, and curry, the lush jungles and arid plains.

I only discovered later what he had deliberately left out: the aching loneliness of being a stranger in a strange land.

 

** Ribald **

As tradition demanded, I celebrated my last night of bacherlorhood with a small party of friends. As a more mature man with respectable acquaintances, several of whom were members of Scotland Yard, I hardly expected a risqué affair. 

I had failed to account for Holmes’ Bohemian nature, Lestrade’s sly humor, or Stamford’s wicked sense of humor – or that they would conspire.

The singer had a brilliant voice, a vast command of ribald songs, and the most vividly-tattooed skin I had ever seen. And I don’t recall which of us turned reddest when she revealed the full extent of her artwork.

 

** Handcuffs **

I do not know if I have ever seen Holmes so angry in all the years of our association. His habitual pallor was broken by two red spots, one high on each cheekbone, and his steely eyes flashed fire. His rage caused the normally-hardened gang member to lose no time in telling us what he knew.

Holmes did not hold back from accompanying the Yarders when bearding the gang in their lair. It was only after each and every criminal was led away in handcuffs that he finally started to calm.

“Lestrade?” he asked me at last.

“He will recover.”

 

** Benediction **

I crept back into the half-ruined barn, hoping that my Watson had been able to find some relief in slumber. His eyes were closed, and I took the opportunity to study his injuries without fear of observation. Even in the faint, dappled light, his various cuts and bruises stood out vividly against the pallor of his face. He shivered noticeably despite being bundled under his coat as well as my own.

His eyes opened as I crouched behind him, and his wan smile felt like a benediction. “Back with breakfast, I hope,” he croaked out, startling me into a smile.

 

** Clandestine **

Seeing Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes together was a study in contrasts. There were some similarities, of course. Both men were unusually tall, and equally pale, and they shared the same unusual grey eyes. But whereas my Holmes was all sharp angles and keen edges, thin and wiry with a greyhound’s athletic build, Mycroft was soft, curved, and massive almost beyond belief. His gaze was never sharp, but faraway even when he focused on you. And where my Holmes rarely admitted interest in food, and never while on a case, there was nothing clandestine about Mycroft’s appetite or appreciation for meals.


	3. 2/14/2012

  


** Serenity **

Rank and status garnered little respect from my Bohemian friend. Holmes was far more inclined to defer to personal merit than to a title. But for all of that, he usually managed well enough with his noble clients, winning the day with a combination of his undeniable skills and forceful personality.

But not always.

His official title was ‘His Serene Majesty,’ but there was no serenity to be found on his infuriated features. “What do you mean, you will not take my case? You ignorant peasant, who are you to refuse me?”

Holmes’ grey eyes glittered. “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

 

** Refined **

Even though Holmes was exhausted from a long string of cases, when Lestrade’s telegram arrived, he immediately exchanged his dressing-gown for his coat. I silently followed.

Lestrade met us at the door. “It’s a bad business,” were the words he greeted us with, followed immediately by “Good Lord. Are you quite all right, Mr. Holmes?”

His shock was quite understandable. With his always-sharp features refined by weeks of scant meals, and dark circles under his eyes, Holmes looked more like a corpse than a consulting detective.

“I’m fine…” Holmes’ exasperated exclamation ended prematurely as he pitched forward in a faint.

 

** Puzzle **

“Watson.”

“…no, that can’t be right…”

“ _Watson._ ”

“…but what else could it be?...”

“Watson!”

“Eh? Oh, I’m sorry, Holmes, I’m afraid I was a bit distracted. What did you say?”

“My dear fellow, what on earth are you doing? I have never heard you exclaim so over a daily paper.”

“It’s the most interesting thing, Holmes. It’s a new sort of word puzzle the Americans have dreamed up. I learned about it in the War, but I haven’t tried one myself until now. Fiendishly clever, I must say.”

“Really? Let me see.”

Holmes eagerly snatched up the paper. Watson grinned.

 

** Confrontation **

I had anticipated the likelihood of an ugly scene. Most people prefer to live in ignorance, despite paying me to enlighten them, if the truth turns out to be more unpleasant or painful than not knowing. 

So I was half-prepared for raised voices, ugly words, perhaps even a few threats. I was not prepared for a physical confrontation, much less for Haines to lash out at _Watson_.  

My friend staggered as a fist landed directly upon one of his old wounds. I had Haines subdued in a trice, but not swiftly enough to catch Watson before he paled and collapsed.

 

** Calliope **

Holmes has cultivated a vast number of odd skills to support the verisimilitude of his disguises. I have witnessed him expertly groom horses, run successful ball-and-cup games, major-domo a state dinner for sixty, and flawlessly rap the knuckles of an impertinent clerk with his fan (he makes a surprisingly convincing dowager). But a certain bookseller aside, perhaps my greatest surprise came one birthday, when a nimble, ginger-haired cripple drove a calliope wagon onto Baker Street, and then proceeded to serenade the neighborhood with a series of my favorite show-tunes.

I never did learn how he managed to hide his legs.


	4. 2/21/2012

** Shiver **

Old Lindy says this is nobbut like the year the Thames froze over, but he’s half-cracked, and anyhow, least then there was a fair with ripe pickings, yeah? Beastly winter like this, there’s nothing on, and me without a penny to pinch and too cold to shiver.

I might have froze right through, if it weren’t for Mr. Holmes. He came outta nowhere, like he allus does, and offered me a shilling to keep m’eye on his doctor friend fer the day. “Just in case he needs help,” he said, an’ even gave me a warm old coat fer disguise.

 

** Ravage **

I couldn’t figure Mr. Holmes’ angle at first. The doctor weren’t no fool, and handier with his fives and his stick than most. Why’d he might need me help, I couldn’t fathom. 

Then I saw how badly he limped, goin’ on his rounds, an’ how slow he moved. The cold weren’t kind to him, sure enough. But I couldna help with that, so why…?

That’s when I saw the other bloke doggin’ the doctor’s steps. Bad gin can ravage a man as bad as the pox, and Gene never had no scruples even afore he pickled himself. Trouble was afoot.

 

** Spark **

Gene was big, and poison-mean even when he weren’t drunk. But he weren’t the sort to go out of his way to go after a bloke, not unless he were paid to do it. Seems Mr. Holmes had good cause to worry about his friend. A’course, he should’ve picked someone bigger to play guard. I couldn’t handle Gene in a fair fight.

Then again, I don’t allus play fair. And I’m a bright enough spark.

Picking Gene’s pocket were child’s play. Doin’ it clumsy enough for him to notice were harder, but soon he was chasin’ me, the doctor forgotten.

 

** Defenestration **

“Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Holmes?” 

His cheeks were flushed with a combination of exertion and cold, but he gave me a self-satisfied grin. “Your constables were a bit slow off the mark, Lestrade, but fortunately I am not entirely unable to defend myself. A simple matter of defenestration.”

“If by that you mean you pitched two of them through the window, then yes, you made it look easy enough. And this should put an end to the gang and its works.”

A slight frown creased his forehead, almost like something still worried him. “I certainly hope so.” 

 

** Cornucopia **

My old wounds pained me, and only stubborn determination had enabled me to finish my rounds. I hoped that Holmes would not need my assistance with the Maberston gang case.

Our sitting-room proved a welcome sight: a blazing fire in the grate, Holmes curled smoking in his chair, and a lavish tea set out on the table. 

“Ah, Watson! Just in time. Mrs. Hudson has provided a veritable cornucopia of good things for us, and I have quite the appetite.”

Holmes eating? “You’ve finished the case, then?”

His smile brightened the room. “Yes, Watson. I believe everything has been settled.”


	5. 2/28/2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson wanted a word this week. Actually, she wanted all the drabbles this week. And who am I to deny her?

** Thud **

Mr. Hudson, bless him, saw the place as a good investment, a place to live and a source of additional income. He would manage the tenants, and I would manage the household. I doubt he imagined I was capable of handling everything, but his untimely death left me little choice. The leaden thud of my grieving, widowed heart would not pay the bills.

Mr. Hudson certainly never dreamed that being a landlady would involve all the excitement, aggravation, and occasional danger I have seen – but he never met Sherlock Holmes.

I wonder what they would have thought of each other.

 

** Revenge **

The noise! The smells! The endless parade of people up and down the stairs – and the nature of some of those people! The unreasonable hours, the untouched meals, the papers scattered everywhere throughout the rooms – and little prospect of amendment, which was the worst thing. Doctor Watson could be reasoned with, but Mr. Holmes alternately ignored and sneered at my requests.

At least he did, until two weeks of nothing but cold bathing-water convinced him to adopt a more reasonable attitude. Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but there's nothing more persuasive than icy water on sensitive skin.

 

** Full **

I had my hands full with the pair of them right from the start. Initially, it was _Doctor Watson_ who caused me more trouble. Not that he meant to; he was always a thoughtful gentleman. But I saw how ill he still was when he moved in. I spent most of their first month concocting special meals to tempt his appetite, and keeping a sharp eye on his progress.

If I hadn't, I wouldn't have seen how Mr. Holmes subtly exerted himself to care for his fellow-lodger – and I wouldn't have had half the tolerance I did for his shenanigans.

 

** Edification **

It was an education, having those two as lodgers. Several of my friends asked me why I tolerated them, particularly in the days before Mr. Holmes became famous.

I had my reasons, of course, ones Doctor Watson and I never publicized. Yes, Mr. Holmes was eccentric, but he was also thoughtful. He observed more than criminals; he kept as close an eye on me, my comfort, and my safety. I'll never forget the day when, 'for my edification,' he demonstrated all the ways my rooms could be easily broken into – and then proceeded to remedy all the problems he found.

 

** Chrysanthemum **

Eventually Doctor Watson married and moved away. But Mr. Holmes stayed on. I never feared that someday he too might fall in love with a nice young woman and settle down somewhere else.

But I forgot the other ways he might leave those rooms, until the day his brother came, dressed in black, his hat in hand.

I keep the rooms intact because he pays me to. But every month I place a single white chrysanthemum on the mantel, in lieu of a real grave. A symbol of my respect and sorrow, and also of Mr. Holmes' true love: truth.


	6. 3/6/2012

  


** Eldritch **

He’s sleeping at last, head lolling against the side of the chair, bad leg propped up on the ottoman. It’s not the most comfortable position. His bed would be kinder to his physical injuries, slower now to heal than in our younger days.

But I will not wake him. He has found rest, temporary refuge from the horrible memories of being trapped, buried alive in the trenches. He spoke of it a little to me tonight, finally. Even told me of the eldritch cry that kept him from succumbing. A call in my voice.

I watch and guard his slumbers.

  


 

** Esoteric **

I am not a fanciful man. More than once I told Watson (along with various clients) that our firm was firmly rooted on the ground, that the supernatural need not apply. My methods might strike some as magical – particularly those without common sense or who only know me through Watson’s little tales – but they were strictly based on scientific principles. I had knowledge in some esoteric fields, but a comprehensive study of tobacco ash is a far cry from the mystical clap-trap so often espoused by the witless masses.

But I believed Watson when he claimed to have heard me.

  


 

** Inherited **

Some might claim that my immediate belief in my friend’s account was proof of age’s toll on my faculties. I certainly felt the effect of the years in my aching joints, my painful hands. Others might suggest that the art in the blood I inherited from my mother’s side of the family was showing through at last. 

While there is an element of veracity in both ideas – I owed much of the success of my two-years’ masquerade to my thespian instincts, and those two years aged me far more than I would have believed – the real truth is far simpler.

  


 

** Embark **

The simple, unalterable truth: my Watson said it. Believed it to the core, _despite_ knowing it was impossible. Said it despite being embarrassed about it. I could not mistake any of this, not having known him for so many years. 

And I believed _in_ him, so of course I believed what he confided to me.

Such a simple equation, really. 

No need to embark on some fanciful fable of wishful thoughts or magical thinking, or delve into the modern humbug of ‘psychology.’

And how could I doubt – disdain – reject _anything_ that had helped him survive, brought him back to me?

  


  
** Minutes **

I could not. So I accepted it. However improbable, Watson was _here,_ and _alive_ , and _would_ recover. The rest was inconsequential. 

It would take time. My friend still could not bear the darkness. Could not rest without some source of light in the room. And truly, he seemed to do best when I was near at hand. Solitude was nearly as intolerable to him as lack of light.

I am not sociable, and since my second retirement, I have been a hermit. But I will never begrudge my company to Watson.

Our minutes together are a gift, never a burden.


	7. 3/13/2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspector Lestrade wanted to have a word this week. There's Watson-whumpage, Holmes-whumpage, and a confused, cranky, overworked, and under-appreciated Inspector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely impishtubist is under the weather. I wondered out loud if there was anything that might help her feel better, and I heard a mysterious Imp-like voice on the wind murmur "I could never say no to anything exploring the John-Sherlock-Lestrade dynamic/friendship." So...here this is, and I hope she feels better soon!

  
  


**Unparalleled**

I'd become used to Mr. Holmes' cavalier neglect of his own health, particularly when on a case. Once he gets interested in something, there's no stopping him, and there's no pausing for anything like food, sleep, or common sense. Very rarely, Doctor Watson can make him see reason, at least enough to keep him from keeling over from exhaustion. And Mr. Holmes regularly considers the doctor's welfare even when he's ignoring his own, which often saves everyone trouble.

So I was so dumbfounded when Mr. Holmes had the unparalleled idiocy to arrive with a coughing, shivering Doctor Watson in tow.

 

**Lamb**

Yes, the case was urgent. Truth to tell, the Superintendent had already spoken to me twice, and made it clear that I wouldn't have much of a career left if he had to hold a third conversation with me about it. I was up against it and no mistake.

But still, I'd have never wired Holmes if I'd have known he'd bring the doctor. Doctor Watson had been noticeably ill two days ago, and bringing him out on a night like this was worse than leading a lamb to the slaughter.

Not that Mr. Holmes looked all that well himself.

 

**Violated**

I sidled over to the doctor while Mr. Holmes examined the latest crime scene. "You shouldn't be here, Doctor," I remonstrated. "Anyone can see that you're ill."

"It's a simple catarrh, no more," the doctor wheezed. "I'll manage."

"But you don't need to. Mr. Holmes – "

"Hasn't eaten in four days, and hasn't slept in three." I could hear the sudden steel in the raspy whisper as he glared at me, as if I'd somehow insulted him, or worse, violated his trust.

"Good God. What does he think he's doing?"

"Solving the case, of course. Hopefully before there's another incident."

 

**Detour**

It's what I'd hoped for when I sent for Mr. Holmes, but I found myself praying that this night's work didn't end at the hospital. I'd far rather risk my job than see either of them come to harm.

Mr. Holmes found a clue we'd all missed, and was off on the trail like a shot. Usually he's unstoppable, but I was not at all surprised when he insisted on a detour into a busy pub, to get Doctor Watson a hot toddy. Nor was I surprised that the doctor insisted that Holmes have one as well.

"You too, Lestrade."

 

**Years**

Despite everything, Mr. Holmes managed to lead us to the culprits before they had the chance to rid themselves of all the evidence of their night's work. A chance stain, still visible despite the wet, was enough for Holmes to browbeat one of them into confessing.

As usual, Mr. Holmes wanted no credit for the solution. He and Doctor Watson took themselves off at once, hopefully for a well-earned rest.

I didn't understand until years later why they'd pushed themselves so. It wasn't just to catch the criminals and to solve the case – but also to help save my career.


	8. 3/20/2012

 

**Haemorrhage**

“Hold him tightly.”

“Don’t I always, sir?” Murray’s quip was nearly drowned out by the groans of the wounded man.

“I’d hate to see your record broken by a simple wound like this.” I patted the soldier’s shoulder reassuringly before injecting him with morphine. “There, lad. It’s scarcely more than a scratch.”

I lied. The severity of haemorrhage alone might kill him, to say nothing of the risk of infection. But I’d learned many things on Afghanistan’s plains that they never taught in school. Tell a man he’d live convincingly enough, and he’d prove you right more often than not.

 

**Quilt**

The cramped room scarcely had room enough for a bed. Such a small space should have at least had the merit of being relatively quick and simple to warm, but no such luck. The fire in the tiny grate could not compensate for the icy drafts forcing their way through every single one of the multiple cracks, chinks, and gaps. I could see my breath in the frosty air.

Watson muttered something under his breath. I leaned closer, but he wasn’t conscious. I tucked the thin quilt more securely around his shivering form, then gently spread my great-coat over him.

 

**Compass**

I take pride in knowing my way around London. It’s an essential skill for a Yard man, although a surprising number of the men never pick up more than the basics. For example, Gregson, for all his book smarts, couldn’t find his way from one end of Piccadilly to the other without a map, compass, and a local constable.

Of course Mr. Holmes puts my knowledge of London to shame. I never worried about him losing his way – physically. And once he started sharing rooms with Doctor Watson, I stopped worrying so much about him losing himself in other ways.

 

**Thunder**

The weather had been positively beastly all week; constant cold rains punctuated by the occasional violent storm. Mr. Holmes had been in and out regardless of the damp, but the poor convalescent Doctor hadn’t stirred a step. He’d looked fretful and peaky when I’d brought up luncheon, and he’d mostly just poked at his food.

I made sure to bake some of my special shortbread for his tea.

Mr. Holmes was there when I brought in the tray. His eyebrows raised when he saw the shortbread, but quickly lowered as a crack of thunder made Doctor Watson flinch and pale.

 

**Future**

You don’t think about much when you’re on the streets. You’re too busy surviving. If you’re lucky, you find allies among others trying to survive, maybe even organize yourselves for protection. But you don’t think about the future, because there isn’t one.

Not unless you’re very lucky.

We Irregulars – we were lucky, most of us. Mr. Holmes did more than give us money; he gave us purpose. Doctor Watson gave us attention, care, and for some, an education. When he learned I could read and wasn’t squeamish about blood, he got me apprenticed.

I’ll be a doctor someday, like him.


	9. 3/27/2012

**Fierce**

“Take another sip, Watson.”

Holmes’ flask pressed insistently against my lips. He braced me against his chest, keeping me levered upright enough to swallow. I forced myself to take a small amount of brandy into my mouth. The spirits burned against my tongue and throat. I gagged, but felt myself becoming more alert.

“Good. Now another!”

Returning awareness brought with it increased knowledge of pain. Within a few minutes, I was fully cognizant of my situation. “I’m all right now,” I gasped out. “But you’ll have to go back without me - ”

“No!” Holmes’ fierce glare brooked no denial.

 

 

**Tongs**

“Holmes, I doubt I can walk.” I could feel the pain like red-hot tongs pressing in on my knee, sending sharp spikes of agony rushing through me with every throb of my pulse. “I certainly can’t manage the hike to the village. You have to bring back help.”

“And leave you here injured and alone for hours?” Holmes’ thin lips set in a straight line of disapproval. “Hardly wise.”

“No, but it’s necessary.” I kept my tone matter-of-fact. “You know it as well as I do. And I am a doctor. I can care for myself.”

Logic prevailed as always.

 

 

**East**

The temperature dropped once the sun set. I shivered despite the thickness of my wool overcoat and sturdy country suit. Some of that was due to chill, I knew, but shock from my injuries also played a part.

Holmes had wanted to leave his coat with me, as extra insulation, but I insisted he take it. He would need it. That was certain.

He _might_ need the extra ammunition he had left, but I had lost that argument before it started. I only discovered the bullets in my pocket after he disappeared, heading east.

At least we both had pistols.

 

 

**Moon**

I could not help but worry about Holmes as blackness engulfed the land. My friend could navigate London’s seediest corners without fail, but the countryside at night? The faint light of the quarter moon might not be enough to allow him to follow our tracks. But he would press on regardless. I knew him well enough to believe that.

I tried to focus on my concern. Far better that than my pain, growing weakness, or the dreadful memories of another night, lying injured in the darkness, listening to the howls of the Afghani women and the screams of their victims.

 

 

**Home**

When surrounded by pitch-darkness, how to tell when your eyelids slip closed?

My next conscious thought came slowly, dragging me back from an unthinking haze.

Something had changed. The night was no longer absolute. A faint glow permeated everywhere, and vague sounds confused me with their lack of sense. What was happening?

Another urgent, commanding noise, and my eyelids twitched open by reflex. The faint glow immediately transformed into the blinding glare of lanterns. Silhouetted by the glare, Holmes looked down at me, his countenance a study in concern.

“H-Holmes?”

“Yes, my dear fellow. We’re here to take you home.”

  



	10. 4/3/2012

** Camaraderie **

The relationships forged between men when in battle are unlike any others. The cheerful rivalries of schoolboys; the determined camaraderie of teammates on the sporting fields; the exhausted fellowship of medical students; all of these can produce close fellow-feeling, engender deep and lasting friendships. But none can produce the near-instant understanding and kinship that exists between soldiers, a feeling that exists even between those men that otherwise despise each other.

I had only ever found two relationships that could compare with that strife-born, deep-seated sense of belonging: that with my Mary, and with my Holmes.

However little I deserved them.

 

** Transmission **

Time is not always kind. It had dulled the edges of Mary’s loss, much as it had blurred my memory of what she had really looked like, sounded like, the person she truly was.

Holmes, however… Losing him the first time, at Reichenbach, was terrible. Losing him the second time, to distance after his retirement, was in some ways worse, for we were both at fault. Our separation might have proved permanent had Lestrade not interfered.

My automobile transmission never fully recovered from that journey to Sussex, but what was a vehicle compared to a vital relationship renewed and reborn?

 

** Sky **

For a time we were closer than we had ever been. Retirement had mellowed Holmes in some ways, although not all. He still remained aloof, sarcastic, and reclusive towards all but a very few. He disliked venturing from the little cottage and the bee-yard. But with me, and with a few others, he was warmer and more human than I had ever known him.

I cherished those days, but they could not last forever. Our sunny sky darkened with the clouds of war. First Holmes was called away, and no sooner had he returned than I went off to war.  

 

 **Sunrise**  
My second military career at least had the distinction of lasting longer than my first, disastrous trial of the profession. Perhaps in recognition of my age – and my less than mint condition – I was stationed at a field hospital set some distance from the front lines. I tended the injured and ill, and amused my patients with long-ago tales from Baker Street.

But the war ground on, obliterating any sense of hope or beauty from the world, until the only lovely thing to be seen in the blasted landscape was the occasional sunrise, gilding blood-soaked, churned earth with illusory glory.

 

** Life **

Eventually my luck ran out. I avoided being shot, blown up, or gassed, and even managed to narrowly escape being run down by an out-of-control ambulance, but fell victim to a bomb-induced massive trench collapse. I was pulled out alive, but between my injuries and the mental trauma of being buried alive for hours, I was deemed unfit for further duty and sent home.

I say I was unlucky, but in truth I was doubly fortunate. Holmes and his housekeeper nursed _me_ back to life and health just in time for me to help save _them_ from the Spanish ‘flu.  



	11. 4/10/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Colonel wanted a word this week. Vague spoilers for canon-related events. Speculation as to FINA events.

  
  
  
**Fool**  
As a young man, I did the expected things. As befitting a young man of my family, I could hardly wait to be commissioned in Her Majesty’s Army.  
  
I excelled there, too. More so than my so-called superiors had anticipated. For it was in the Army that I truly began to come into my own. I realized that ‘rank’ and ‘honor’ were fairy tales invented to keep the masses in check. I learned that every man is a fool in some aspect, and that keeping your own in check while taking advantage of others’ weaknesses is the key to victory.  
  
  
 **Betrayal**  
Such knowledge should have been my ticket to regular promotions and high rank. But jealousy and betrayal dogged me at every turn. Dogged, ha! For that is what it was. The spineless jackals in the upper ranks, sensing a true lion in their midst, found every excuse to turn on me and try to drag me down.  
  
What mattered a few dead cowards compared to my prowess with my gun on the battlefield and in the hunt? What business of it was theirs that I used the same eye for strategy to win at cards as well as at war?  
  
  
 **Foil**  
No, it was nothing but petty jealousies that forced me out. Jealousy and fear, for they knew, down to a man, that I was their better. That I could kill any one of them, on the battlefield, in a challenge, or with my own bare hands.  
  
That was my folly, to forget that the sniveling crowd can bring down even the mightiest man. The cowards managed to foil my career entirely. They could not disgrace me, but they forced me out all the same. I was left a soldier without a battlefield, useless.  
  
At least until the Professor found me.  
  
  
 **Passion**  
Professor Moriarty is, without doubt, the greatest man the world has ever known.  
  
I did not think much of him at all when he introduced himself. I nearly dismissed him as some kind of effete scholar. But in less than a minute he managed to convince me of his genius. That domed head and scholastic mien conceals the most brilliant general’s brain. Not just the strategic and tactical excellence – although he rivals Alexander himself in both – but the true measure of greatness: the ruthless passion to succeed regardless of obstacles, people, organizations, or nations.  
  
I am proud to serve him.  
  
  
 **Fall**  
The Professor recognized my weaknesses as well as my strengths, and used me accordingly. As I grew to understand his work, I realized that here was a worthy challenge, the cause I had searched for all my life.  
  
The one man I could feel proud to call my friend.  
  
He called me his trusted partner. And I was, but I never forgot the difference between us. I served him as loyally as any man served another, with one exception: another soldier, in service to Moriarty’s greatest foe.  
  
Fellow-feeling stayed my hand. I should have shot Doctor Watson at Reichenbach Fall.  
  



	12. 4/17/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson wanted to share a set this week in response to last week's Colonel Moran set. Vague spoilers for canon-related events.

  
  
  
**Truth**  
When it comes right down to it, I am a very ordinary man. This is not modesty; it is the truth. My brother was the gifted one in our family, blessed with both beauty of body and keenness of mind, a bright soul struck down by circumstances and drink. In comparison, I was ordinary: a good student, but no brilliant scholar; average in looks and charm. I excelled at rugby, but found myself drawn to medicine through as much chance as aptitude.  
  
No, I am an ordinary man, who has been by mere luck witness to extraordinary events – and individuals.  
  
  
 **Foal**  
My medical studies went smoothly enough. The lessons I learned about teamwork and endurance on the rugby field served me well in the dissecting rooms, lecture halls, and my student rounds. I did not shine, but I found the work and the fellowship satisfying enough. Less welcome was the expense. The Army seemed a logical solution to both my fiscal needs and my desire to make something useful of my life.  
  
Less than a year later, I found myself once more at loose ends, shaky and weak as a newborn foal, and deemed unfit for both the military and medicine.  
  
  
 **Loyalty**  
I was at a loss, and might well have been truly lost, had chance (and Stamford) not introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. Despite my illness-induced lassitude and his natural reserve, Holmes soon became my friend and my profession all in one. In his friendship and confidence in my abilities (such as they were), I found my own shattered nerves mending. In following him around London, I renewed my health. And he tolerated my fictionalized accounts of his cases with that deep loyalty which overcame his habitual reticence.  
  
I have never given Holmes enough credit for everything he did for me.  
  
  
 **Fell**  
Through Holmes, I found a home, renewed health, a new profession as a writer, and a recovered one in my eventual ability to return to medical practice. I also found friendship, adventure, and a beautiful wife who brightened my existence every day with her warmth and intelligence.  
  
Although preoccupied with marital life and a renewed medical practice, I tried to be a good friend to Holmes, as he had always been to me. I remain proud that when Moriarty threatened his life, he came to me for aid and companionship.  
  
Despite my best attempts to guard him, he fell anyway.  
  
  
 **Forgiveness**  
For three long years, I thought him dead. In those years, I lost much of what Holmes had helped give me: not just my friend, but the adventures, too. I lost my Mary and the family we so briefly had together.  
  
I kept my pen and my medical practice, but they were bitter, hollow things.  
  
And then Holmes reappeared, asking my forgiveness and requesting my help against the last foe that had kept him at bay. Kept him away from London, his life. From me.  
  
I have rarely felt such satisfaction striking down a man as I did Colonel Moran.


	13. 4/24/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Inspector Lestrade takes the stage this week. Spoilers for well-known canon-related events.

  
  
  
  
**Berry**  
The maid who answered the door looked vaguely familiar. I hadn't been by in longer than I liked to think, particularly given the circumstances, but apparently she remembered me, too.  
  
"Oh, Inspector!" She tried to smile, but her lips trembled, and her eyes were red as a berry. "Are you here to see the doctor?"  
  
"If he's available," I said, unsure of my welcome.  
  
"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you." She ushered me inside and into a chair before vanishing down the hall.  
  
The parlor was cozy, well-used but scrupulously maintained, with clear signs of a woman's touch.  
  
  
 **Boundaries**  
Despite all my years on the job, my throat tightened at the reminder of why I'd come.  
  
I'd been to his consulting-rooms, both in a professional capacity and as a patient, but I'd only been here a handful of times at most.  
  
There are unspoken boundaries between us. Always have been. Some of it is the difference between his job and mine, the chasm between classes, although he cared almost as little for that as any man I'd ever met, excepting one.  
  
And that dead man was another wall between us. I still felt guilty. I guessed he did, too.  
  
  
 **Tongue**  
I recognized the irony. For all his sharp tongue, Mr. Holmes would never have blamed either of us for failing to save him from Moriarty. I could practically see him, staring with that sardonic air of his, as if to say 'Moriarty was genius enough to best _me_ ; you never stood a chance.'  
  
Maybe so, but nonetheless it's my job to protect people from criminals. It was the Yard who let Moriarty slip through our net, despite all the evidence Mr. Holmes gave us. The Yard failed Mr. Holmes. I failed him.  
  
And Dr. Watson _published_ his feelings of failure.  
  
  
 **Restraint**  
He's a good writer, Dr. Watson. Reading his stories is almost as good as being there, and I should know, having read accounts of cases where I was actually present. Oh, he's not always accurate in all the facts. Sometimes that's deliberate; if you tried to recognize me from his written descriptions, you'd probably pick the wrong man. And sometimes the doctor exercises restraint, and leaves out details that might otherwise embarrass folks. But he always conveys the sense of the events he writes about. You can see the countryside, taste the moisture in the air.  
  
Feel the wrenching sorrow.  
  
  
 **Swallow**  
A footstep sounded. I looked up, and my breath caught. The last time I'd seen Dr. Watson, he'd been in all black, too; he'd mourned Mr. Holmes like a brother. But he'd started to get some life back in his expression, a little more weight on his frame. His Mary had helped him, then.  
  
All that was gone now. He was haggard, thin, and there was no spark in his eyes. He'd survived Mr. Holmes' death, but this?  
  
I owed him – them – too much not to try. "Doctor Watson. I'm so sorry."  
  
I saw him swallow. "Thank you, Inspector Lestrade."


	14. 5/1/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has faced many terrors in his life.

  
  
**Perhaps**  
I have faced many terrors in my life. Some, like university exams or being handed the ball on a crucial play with the entire back line between him and the goalposts, were transitory, relatively trivial in the great balance of things. Others, such as being vastly outnumbered and outgunned in battle with an entirely merciless foe, were life-changing. Not to mention being shot, or told that I was permanently disabled from what had been my life’s career.  
  
For all that, perhaps one of the greatest terrors I ever faced was a bored, bedridden detective with a bad cold.  
  
Like today.  
  
  
 **Time**  
Holmes had brought it on himself. Always careless of his health and personal safety, he had spent hours in the freezing rain on his most recent case, and followed it up with a hair-raising chase through some of London’s dodgiest mews. He’d caught his man, but a bad slip on slippery cobblestones had also left him with a severely sprained ankle – one he hadn’t even acknowledged until the case was over.  
  
Less than twenty-four hours later, the consequences of all that cold waiting made themselves known as well. Now time weighed almost as heavily on the detective as his catarrh.  
  
  
 **Excite**  
It was, therefore, a mixed blessing when Lestrade turned up at our door. On the one hand, I felt a profound sense of relief at the prospect of a distraction for Holmes, or at least a temporary reprieve for myself. On the other hand, I had a not-unreasonable sense of trepidation over what this could mean to my friend’s health. I well knew that if Holmes became truly interested, he would think nothing of attempting to leave his sickbed.  
  
“Try not to excite him unduly,” I warned the inspector. “He is quite unwell.”  
  
Lestrade nodded. “Understood, Doctor. I’ll be careful.”  
  
  
 **Strange**  
Inspector Lestrade turned an interesting shade of pale when I showed him into Holmes’ bedroom. The room itself was rather more neat than usual, as Holmes’ limited mobility required clear pathways from the bed to the door. Holmes was propped up in the bed, wearing his grey dressing-gown over his pajamas, and carefully tucked under several quilts. His swollen ankle was propped up on several pillows, but he was decent enough for visitors.  
  
Then I noticed where Lestrade’s eyes were fixed, and I understood. I imagine it would seem strange to him, seeing all those wanted posters and criminal portraits.  
  
  
 **Between**  
Lestrade took the chair next to Holmes’ bed and started his account. Holmes asked a few questions, and when he spoke, his raspy voice suggested he was overdue for another dose of throat tonic. Mrs. Hudson’s slippery-elm-and-licorice concoction was as effective as anything in the standard pharmacopeia, and had the added advantage that Holmes actually liked the stuff.  
  
Within half an hour, Lestrade was on his way with Holmes’ solution. While my friend often jokes that he could solve half the Yard’s cases lying down, this was the first time I saw him solve one literally from between the sheets.


	15. 5/8/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Mary wanted all the words this week.

  
  
  
  
**Scream**  
I was raised to be brave. I am the daughter of a soldier, after all, and having lost my mother at an early age, my father instilled many of his own virtues in me in those few tender years we spent together before he sent me off to school. Courage, self-reliance, and resilience were instilled in me. Even as a schoolchild, I was not the type to shriek if another girl pulled my hair, or scream at the sight of a spider in my bedclothes.  
  
Indeed, courage is the greatest legacy my father left me.  
  
I have often needed it.  
  
  
  
  
 **Sanctuary**  
My father's disappearance – just as I'd hoped to enjoy a home of our own – was a bitter blow. I was thrown back entirely on my own meager resources. I was fortunate to come into the employ of Mrs. Forrester. Her house became my home and refuge, not just a means to earn a living.  
  
However, I never found as profound a sanctuary there as I did when I met Doctor John Watson, saw the kindness in his face, felt the warmth in his eyes.  
  
I had come to Mr. Holmes for help, and found far more than I ever dreamed.  
  
  
 **Dust**  
Within twenty-four hours, I knew that my father was dead, that I stood heiress to half a million pounds, and most importantly, that I had lost my heart to John Watson, the best and kindest man I had ever met. What should have been happiness, however, threatened to turn to dust. He was too decent, too honorable, and too little valued his own worth to offer for an heiress.  
  
I also knew that more than the potential treasure stood between us.  
  
John's heart was made for love. He had it already, in the mutual regard between himself and Sherlock Holmes.  
  
  
  
  
 **Premonition**  
Oh, he never said so, any more than he confessed his love for me at the time. But I could see it in the care he showed towards his friend, his unquestioning loyalty, the glow in his expression whenever he spoke to me of him – which he did, very often, and not just in reference to my case. If ever a man truly loved another, John loved his Mr. Holmes. And it took no womanly powers of intuition or a psychic premonition to guess that Mr. Holmes cared just as deeply for him.  
  
What, then, could there be for me?  
  
  
  
  
 **Remains**  
What I had not yet discerned – then – was that John's heart was big enough for two. He could, and did, love us both, without hesitation or reserve.  
  
When he asked me to marry him, I had only one doubt. Could I marry a man when half his heart belonged to another, and always would? Was my own love great enough to be willing to share?  
  
It was –and is. I said yes, and I have never regretted it. In many ways, I have come to love Mr. Holmes, too.  
  
What Mr. Holmes feels about these matters – that remains a mystery.


	16. 5/22/12

**Flu**  
“What? How is thi – atchoo! – this my own fault, Watson?”  
  
“First there was the matter of your going without a decent meal for days on end…”  
  
“I am a brain, Wa – aaaaTCHOO!”  
  
“Fasting and going without sleep lowers resistance to disease, and you did both. And stood in the rain for hours. And then to go into the house, despite the landlady’s clear warning…”  
  
“I thought she meant to warn us about a blocked chimney, not – atchoo! – slang for this pestilential influenza!”  
  
“Oh Holmes. My poor fellow. Rest now. I won’t let this ‘flu keep you down for long.”  
  
“Watson!”  
  
  
 **Fluff**  
“Watson?” Holmes paused, staring at the top of my head. “Surely you don’t mean to go out looking like that?”  
  
I flushed. “I fear I have little choice.”  
  
“But that’s your field cap, my dear fellow. And while Manchester is not London, it is hardly the country.”  
  
“I’m afraid my bowler is… otherwise occupied, Holmes. I’ll need a replacement.”  
  
Scowling, Holmes looked past me into our hired room – and then froze as he spied my bowler, filled to the brim with fluff – and the meanest green eyes I’d ever seen.  
  
“Ah. The lady of the house took possession, I see.”  
  
  
 **Glad**  
“If by that you’ve inferred that one of this hotel’s champion mousers has decided to abscond with the only bowler I brought, then yes, Holmes, you have deduced correctly.”  
  
“But why don’t you just take it back from her? It’s only a cat!”  
  
“For one, she’s a very ill-tempered cat, with very sharp claws and teeth.”  
  
“Good God, man. You’ve faced down every kind of criminal, not to mention spectral hounds and venomous snakes, only to be deterred by a simple moggy?”  
  
“A cat who’s momentarily expecting a glad event, yes. Another one.”  
  
“…Oh. You need a new hat.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
  
 **Avenger**  
Thirty-six hours. That’s how long it had been since our pursuit of the gang had been turned on its head. Since my Watson had vanished into the mists, the only trace of him an ominous blood-stain next to his shattered walking-stick.  
  
Thirty-six hours. An interminable period during which I had neither slept nor ate, but relentlessly scoured London in search of him.  
  
Thirty-six hours of Lestrade’s silent, worried support, Hopkins’ blundering attempts at comfort.  
  
Thirty-six hours come down to this place, this moment, waiting to rush into the warehouse. To learn whether I was to be Watson’s rescuer, or avenger.  
  
  
 **Give**  
I did not have many resources myself, when Sherlock first followed me to London. I would have offered him a place to stay, but my single rented room did not permit it, any more than our personal temperaments would have found such an arrangement congenial.  
  
Do not misunderstand me. My brother and I love each other dearly. But we are too similar in some respects, and too wildly different in others, to rub along easily in confined chambers. And my brother needs more than I have to give.  
  
Not that I learned this until an Army doctor filled the void.  
  



	17. 5/29/12

  
**Pony**  
Part of the art of disguise is the ability to perform the role. When I am in character as a seaman, I must not only speak as a sailor would, but be able to smoke and tie knots as such a man will. The same goes when taking on any character, from beggar to gentleman-about-town rather the worse for drink.  
  
One of my most useful disguises is that of a stable-hand. Stables are rife with gossip, and provide many opportunities. It does require the ability to handle horses, which I have – generally.  
  
That evil Welsh pony, however, proved my match.  
  
  
 **Kitten**  
I am not entirely truthful in my stories. To some degree, this is to protect the anonymity of Holmes’ clients, but it is largely to protect Holmes himself. My friend, like all true artists, is far more sensitive than the cold reasoning machine I am guilty of inventing and perpetuating in the pages of the Strand. For those he cares for, Holmes cares as deeply as anyone I have ever known.  
  
So the stories of his kindness, his caring, from the Irregular with the mauled kitten to his countless acts of affection – these remain tales untold, for his own sake.  
  
  
 **Snide**  
As Holmes’ reputation grew, so did his troubles with certain elements of the official forces. Some men, such as Lestrade and Gregson, while finding Holmes’ manner verging on offensive, were able to see past their (often justified) feelings and actively recruit Holmes for his unique talents. Unfortunately, they were outnumbered by those who felt the need to vent their jealousies in snide remarks, rude comments, or outright refusal to work with him.  
  
Holmes affected unconcern, but I knew it chafed, particularly when he was cut out of a promising case. But he said nothing.  
  
I was not always so reserved.  
  
  
 **Palm**  
Mr. Holmes was bad enough. Always coming and going, often in the most outlandish disguises, and shouting “Mrs. Hudson!” to be heard around the corner. And the mess! Doctor Watson was a model of tidiness in comparison.  
  
But all that I could tolerate. What I absolutely refused to allow was any of his so-called band of ‘Irregulars’ onto the premises. Filthy, ragged little street-beggars, and likely thieves. I stood firm against all Mr. Holmes’ blandishments.  
  
However, even I was not proof against a shivering, big-eyed urchin, shyly offering me a posy in one grubby palm on a bleak spring morn.  
  
  
 **Return**  
I dislike being in anyone’s debt. If I could tolerate it, I might have had a different life. Chemistry has always had its allure, and had I been able to afford it, I might have finished my degree and pursued a purely academic career.  
  
Then again, perhaps not. Universities are rife with petty minds and rigid authorities.  
  
I am as I am, and so I found myself in need of a fellow-lodger to defray expenses. A casual acquaintance made a chance introduction.  
  
I have _never_ been able to make an adequate return to Stamford for the gift he gave me.


	18. 6/5/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopkins??? Really?!? ...um, well, okay, I'll try... Seriously, I have *no* kind of Hopkins voice, but he wanted these words. Go figure.

  
  
  
  
  
**Magical**  
He wasn't alive when I joined the Yard – he'd been killed. But from the way people talked about him, you'd have thought Mr. Holmes was just a fancy story told to the credulous. His amazing powers, his legendary manners (or lack of them), his nearly magical ability to solve the toughest cases – the man sounded more fairy-tale than flesh.  
  
If it weren't for a few of the senior inspectors – Lestrade, Gregson – I'd have discounted the tales entirely.  
  
Only after meeting Doctor Watson that one time did Mr. Holmes seem remotely real, and mourned.  
  
And then the detective turned up alive.  
  
  
 **Target**  
It was a nine-days' wonder at the Yard, and no mistake. Then the man came by for a visit, and I learned first-hand what all the fuss was about. Mr. Holmes… Well, there's just no one else like him, that's all. He took an interest in me from the start, and I nearly burst my buttons with pride. I easily fell under his spell. He was the master, I the student.  
  
And I forgot – or never learned – that he was human, and fallible, until the day a minor mistake resulted in Doctor Watson becoming the target of a vengeful man.  
  
  
 **Lady**  
I didn't think much of Doctor Watson in those days. I don't mean I thought badly of him, so much as I didn't consider him at all, except to wonder why Mr. Holmes preferred his company. In my mind, I answered that easily enough; Mr. Holmes liked an audience.  
  
But as little as I knew him then, I did know he was a gentleman, and would never allow harm to come to a lady, or turn down one who came to him for help. And if I understood that, Mr. Holmes knew it far better – and so did our quarry.  
  
  
 **Leer**  
It was, as I said, a minor mistake, a careless slip of the tongue – my tongue, worse luck, in saying something that wouldn't have mattered, except the wrong pair of ears heard it, and witnessed Mr. Holmes' withering response. But it let our man's brother know we were on the right track, just as Doctor Watson's chivalrous response to a passing leer made at a serving-maid hinted at how the doctor might be approached without raising his suspicions.  
  
It wasn't logic that set the brother after Doctor Watson, or Mr. Holmes might have seen it sooner. It was pure revenge.  
  
  
 **Nomad**  
I never knew what tipped off Mr. Holmes. All I knew is one minute he was his usual self, and the next he went white as a sheet and started shouting for a cab. A few terse words was all the explanation he afforded, but it took no detective-work to read the tension on his face.  
  
Or the surprise, when we reached Baker Street to find the cross-dressed brother out cold on the sitting-room floor.  
  
"I haven't forgotten how to protect myself in the years since you went nomad, Holmes." The mildest rebuke, but the look between them spoke volumes.


	19. 6/12/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one went off in a very odd direction, indeed.

  
  
  
**Willy-nilly**  
Understanding slang is part of the job. And not just the abuse that gets rained down when you arrest a man, or the filth that slips past the painted lips of the ‘working women.’ There’s clues in the cant of the street thieves, the lingo of the dockworkers, the language of the professional cab-men.  
  
Unlike my fellow Yarders, I am also classically educated. Which is why I recognized the inherent pun when, after Mr. Holmes was knocked willy-nilly down the stairs, he was obliged to stop long enough for Doctor Watson to tend him, whether he wished it or not.  
  
  
 **Twitch**  
“And how is Mr. Holmes?”  
There had been certain incidents in the past that… Well, Inspector Lestrade and I did not agree on much, but we both recognized that as infuriating as Mr. Holmes was when busy, he was ten times worse when not actively engaged. I hated to think what he was like, laid up with a broken ankle.  
  
“Sleeping.”  
  
I studied his face, but Doctor Watson gave nary a twitch, no hint whether Mr. Holmes was actually sleeping, or if he’d dosed him for a bit of peace – or if the detective had drugged himself into a stupor.  
  
  
 **Dying**  
“Well, you did warn me.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“In the earliest days of our acquaintance, in fact. You warned me then that you might lie on the sofa for days on end and not speak a word.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Granted, I thought you were warning me about your temperament. A quirk of your nature, to sulk and laze about.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“And you were quite right. You do have dark moods. You are often quite infuriating, I must admit it. But damn it, Holmes, you are not dying of a fall down the stairs. I won’t let you, no matter how hard you try.”  
  
  
 **Favorite**  
There should have been nothing complicated in Holmes’ recovery. He’d been bruised all over in the fall, and he’d cracked his ankle. But these were simple hurts, easily mended with time and a bit of care. Well within the abilities of a semi-invalid, pensioned-out former Army doctor such as myself to tend.  
  
I had reckoned without Holmes’ stubbornness, his chronic lack of care for himself, and his favorite vice when wanting dreams.  
  
A neglected cold, a spring soaking, a too-heavy dose of morphine later, and I had the fight of my life on my hands. A fight for _Holmes_ ’ life.  
  
  
 **Done**  
We never spoke of it afterwards. For all his Bohemian nature, he was as intensely reserved as any British gentleman, and such things simply weren’t done.  
  
But I knew, and I knew he knew, just how close it had been. How narrowly he had come to throwing his life away. How I had very nearly not been able to save it.  
  
When he produced two tickets to a musical I dearly wanted to see, and offered to stand me to dinner at Simpsons, I recognized it for the apology it was. Just as he understood my acceptance signaled my forgiveness.


	20. 6/19/12

  
**War**  
I have seen all kinds of conflict over the course of my lifetime.  
  
As a soldier, I participated in the organized, regimented battle of nations. I witnessed first-hand the chaos of attack and retreat crumbling into slaughter.  
  
As a companion and biographer, I fought against crime and injustice at the side of some of the finest men I have ever known.  
  
As a doctor, I struggled against injury, disease, and illnesses, often winning, sometimes failing, once losing more than I could bear.  
  
I never fought a harder war than the one I waged to save Holmes from his own destruction.  
  
  
 **Dapper**  
I did not think much of Inspector Lestrade when we first met. I was still far weaker than I would admit, and I freely admit that my judgment was not at its best. But there was nothing in his small stature or ordinary, easily-forgettable features that inspired my confidence, particularly when compared to my friend’s imposing height and keen, thin face. And Lestrade’s neat, rather dapper clothes seemed more affectation than style, particularly when taken in conjunction with what I saw as his disdainful and confrontational manner.  
  
I did not do him justice then, in thought, word, or written description.  
  
  
 **Disappoint**  
I do not know how long I drifted. Strange fever-dreams, drugged haze, and a never-ending sense of pain, veering between agony and near-quiescence; these were the only things I knew.  
  
Finally I came back to myself. I opened my eyes and saw Holmes watching me with relief and anger warring across his face.  
  
“Watson, thank God. Whatever possessed you to follow Harris by yourself?”  
  
“Didn’t… want to… disappoint…” My throat was too dry to continue.  
  
“Disappoint me?” Holmes carefully helped me to drink. “My dear fellow, I can live with disappointment, but I should hate to do without my biographer.”  
  
  
 **Whoops**  
It had been a quiet afternoon, a welcome relief after a week of hectic activity. I lost myself in the pages of my novel, only vaguely aware of Holmes pottering away at his chemistry table, as peacefully absorbed in his activities as I was in my adventure tale.  
  
Peaceful, that is, until I heard an exclamation, a tinkle of glass – and found myself abruptly enveloped in a cloud of pungent, emerald-green smoke.  
  
“Holmes!” I thundered, after we had made our escape. “Our own inconvenience aside, exactly what do you intend to tell Mrs. Hudson when she returns?”  
  
Holmes shrugged. “Whoops?”  
  
  
 **Myself**  
Holmes has never been reticent about his issues with my written accounts of his cases.  
  
Some of his objections I understood immediately. He accuses me of being a romantic, of caring more about the human drama than the cold, hard facts of a case. I do not deny this. As a doctor, I am trained to see the person as well as the ill; as a writer, I do the same.  
  
Other objections surprised me when I learned of them. Holmes claimed one day that I never describe myself in my stories. Why this bothered him, he never did say.


	21. 6/26/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another grab-bag of unrelated drabbles this week. Oh, and the first drabble has a quote, which doesn't count to the 100-word limit.

  
  
  
  
  
**Absinthe**  
A decade ago, she had been one of the celebrated ladies of London, sought after for her wit and her beauty alike. But by the time Holmes and I found her in one of the city’s bleaker slums, it was impossible to distinguish any of that celebrated loveliness of face or mind. Absinthe addiction had ravaged and ruined her.  
  
She had enough wits left to remember what we needed to know, and offered her information in exchange for a few pounds. More money for the fairy, I was sure.  
  
As we left, I heard Holmes quote something under his breath. _“But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on Hell.”_  
  
  
 **Medal**  
It was a quiet ceremony. I sat beside Mycroft and saw a faint smile crease that immense, solemn face as he watched his younger brother.  
  
“It suits you, Sherlock,” were his first words to his sibling afterwards, at the reception. “I am gratified that you deigned to accept it.”  
  
A hint of rose tinted Holmes’ cheeks. “I could hardly decline. And I am grateful, although my services hardly merited such a reward.”  
  
“Holmes!” I objected at once. “You have earned that medal a dozen times over.”  
  
His eyes flicked to the ribbons on my dress uniform. “Not compared to some.”  
  
  
 **Shatter**  
Watson was not an accurate biographer by any means. I often twitted him on the subject, sometimes with merit, sometimes humorously, and sometimes with no reason beyond temper.  
  
What I have never acknowledged – publicly or privately – is how much I benefitted from Watson’s foibles as a chronicler. He made me out to be a much better man than I truly am. I was not always kind to him. Indeed, there were instances where I was genuinely cruel. But despite everything, I could never shatter our friendship, or Watson’s faith in me.  
  
My Watson. Thankfully, I never did find his limits.  
  
  
 **Camera obscura**  
“But I was watching you the entire time!” Inspector Gregson’s face was beet-red with indignation. “You had your back turned away from Malten for the complete first act. How then did you manage to see him in the act of slipping the jewels into Foulet’s pocket? I suppose you’ll tell me that you have eyes in the back of your head.”  
  
I too was afire with curiosity, but unlike the Inspector, Holmes’ chuckle only made me want to smile with him. “Come now, Inspector. Surely a well-educated man such as yourself is familiar with the principles of a camera obscura.”  
  
  
 **Chicken**  
1896 saw a number of cases that I doubt I shall ever get leave to publish. Some involved matters of delicacy far too sensitive to ever document publicly. Others, while true, would strain the credulity of the most naïve readers. And one case still gives Holmes and myself occasional nightmares.  
  
But the standout event was the temporary loss of Mrs. Hudson. She broke her leg in a fall, and spent six weeks recovering at the seaside. Holmes and I both greeted her with open arms at her return – not least because we were thoroughly sick of her sister’s boiled chicken.


	22. 7/3/12

  
**Opium**  
Watson never said a word, but then again, he didn’t need to. My Watson is almost always an open book to me, and I read his instant of horror when I revealed myself to him there, in the opium den.  
  
I could not reassure him that instant, but as soon as we were both clear of the place and unobserved, I took both his shoulders in my hands.  
  
“I have not taken up another vice, Watson. Upon my honor, I was there pursuing a case, not drugged dreams.”  
  
“Of course, Holmes.” I felt Watson’s belief – and relief – in every fibre.  
  
  
 **Gun**  
It was one of our own constables that turned a simple arrest turned into an utter debacle. By the time we caught up with Merridew, he had his knife to a young girl’s throat and a carriage waiting.  
  
“Leave off, gentlemen, or her death is on your heads.”  
  
I glanced over at Mr. Holmes. He was dead-pale with more than fasting. Crimson showed around a rip in his waistcoat. Alarmed, I looked over to Doctor Watson – just in time to see him draw out a gun with his unbroken left hand and put a bullet straight between the murderer’s eyes.  
  
  
 **Bohemian**  
“Really, Watson!” Holmes threw aside my novel and shook the stem of his cherry-wood pipe. “Trilby?”  
  
“It’s very popular, Holmes, and some are calling it a classic of Bohemian literature. I should think it might hold some interest for you, of all people.”  
  
“It’s utter balderdash, and romantic drivel to boot. A tone-deaf laundress, hypnotized into becoming an operatic diva! That is not Bohemianism; it’s complete nonsense!”  
  
“Well of course, Holmes.” I failed to mention that the book had been pressed on me by one of my club members, who had only been half-joking when he called Holmes my Svengali.  
  
  
 **Brothers**  
Watson and I are both the younger of two brothers. Each of us, in fact, considered the lesser of the two, surpassed by our elder sibling in those qualities which were valued most. Mycroft surpasses me in both intelligence and observation. From what I have learned, Harry Watson equally outshone his younger brother in charm, wit, and prospects.  
  
But whereas Mycroft only used his superior talents to encourage my own, I can only surmise that Harry used his to constantly remind John of his own supposed inferiority.  
  
How else to explain Watson’s persistent inability to recognize his own incredible worth?  
  
  
 **Sail**  
“Holmes…”  
  
“Yes, Watson? Good heavens. My dear fellow, if I didn’t know better, and I don’t, I’d say you look quite nervous!”  
  
“Not nervous, precisely. It’s just that I don’t much care for steamships.”  
  
“Nonsense. You’ve been to India and back!”  
  
“And was seasick most of the way there, and nearly died on the return journey. And don’t forget that little matter of the _Friesland_. I certainly can’t.”  
  
“Yet you insisted on coming with me today.”  
  
“I wouldn’t leave you to face these scoundrels alone, Holmes!”  
  
“Then I’d best solve the case immediately, for otherwise we sail in three hours.”


	23. 7/10/12

 

**Network**

In his chronicles, Watson has injected certain trivial notes, such as my dislike of leaving London. He attributes this to my being a creature of habit, and suggests that I am uncomfortable without the familiar conveniences of Baker Street.

Every slander contains a grain of truth.

I am uncomfortable away from London, the way a man is ‘uncomfortable’ when he suddenly loses the use of one of his senses. Away from my city, from my network of informants, I am half-blind.

Lack of information is a weakness to be deplored at any time, and now, potentially deadly for my Watson.

**Iron**

Birmingham is the second largest city in England, and in many areas, its superior in technological innovation. It is a city of canals and coal-tar, iron and engines. I have been here before, chasing criminals, pursuing some of my more esoteric chemical researches. But it is not my city. I have contacts here, but nothing like my Irregulars. Nothing like my informants in the dockyards, mews, and stews. Nothing like my associates at the Yard.

What I wouldn’t give to be speaking to Lestrade or Gregson, instead of this lead-hearted, cotton-brained, uniformed _idiot_ who mistakes my rational concern for uncertainty.

**Care**

It was as cold-blooded and cunning a scheme as any I’d encountered in London’s slums. Identify men with valuable talents needed elsewhere by others with deep pockets and few scruples. Isolated bachelors or visitors to Birmingham, men with no one to notice or care if they vanished one day.

And vanish they did. Over a dozen of them before the criminals targeted the fiancé of my client. Even then, a week had passed before she came to me, the trail already cold. We went anyway, Watson and I.

Doctors have particularly valuable talents. I remembered this only when Watson disappeared.

**Instinctive**

It was an unforgivable oversight on my part, not to realize that my Watson might be a tempting target for this gang. But it never occurred to me, not least because I do not see Watson as a stranger, alone, with no one to care for him. And Watson is highly capable of taking care of himself.

But he is also meticulously punctual, the military habits of his former life too deeply ingrained to casually miss a scheduled appointment. When I returned from my reconnoitering to meet for tea and found him absent, an instinctive shudder ran down my spine.

**Glitter**

Fortunately I had already largely cracked the case. I’d discovered the warehouse hideout of the gang, where they kept their stolen goods and kidnapped men. Madness, for one man to attempt to breach it on his own.

That did not stop me. The police had failed me; I would not fail Watson.

The man guarding the locked room was alert for trouble from _within_. I felled him with a single blow.

My dark lantern’s light raised a kindred glitter in aware, narrowed eyes. Blood stained his face and matted his hair, but Watson grinned gamely as I loosed his bonds.

  



	24. 7/17/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week, a twist: this also fills JWP #1 on Watson's Woes: Prompt: Original Character POV of Holmes and Watson, of a situation which should be mundane but, for whatever reason, isn't

  
  
  
**Machine**  
There’s not many as notices a cab-man and his horse. Oh, they’ll note you to hire and give their destination. And I make sure they see me long enough to pay up. But for all that, few actually s _ee_ a man, a person – and for all that most pay heed, it might as well be a machine in front of the cab instead of a horse.  
  
The bloke that flagged me down was like that. His two companions, though, were different. They saw me – and the tall, thin one near flayed me to the bone with those pale grey eyes.  
  
  
 **Webley**  
They caught my attention, those two. So I paid more heed than the norm in turn. The tall fellow struck me as a man I wouldn’t care to cross, and looked grim as granite to boot. His friend – and you could see the two were close – had kinder lines in his face, but the way he held himself told me as plain as his moustache that he’d been a soldier once.  
  
You don’t forget how a soldier looks, once you’ve been in the Army.  
  
Nor do you forget the look of a Webley, like the one the third man held.  
  
  
 **Cave**  
The third fellow didn’t mean me to see the piece. He had it mostly concealed under a muffler. But from the way he leaned against the military-looking bloke, I figured he was ready to pull the trigger, should the thin man offer any trouble.  
  
I didn’t dare cause a scene, not directly, lest someone start bleeding. But I kept my eyes and ears open for chances as I started on our way, and I heard the thin man speak.  
  
“I won’t cave in to your demands, Nellis.”  
  
“Oh, I think you will, if you want the doctor to remain healthy.”  
  
  
 **Pepper**  
If I wasn’t sure something havey-cavey was going on before, I was sure of it now. And I wanted no part of it, but being already _in_ it, t’was up to me to try and put a stop to it. Hopefully without anyone winding up catching a bullet.  
  
Luckily, it was Pepper in the traces today. He’s a good horse, is Pep, as long as you know how to handle him, but there’s a reason for the name.  
  
It didn’t take more than a block to find something he’d start, shy, and rear at, given a chance.  
  
I gave it.  
  
  
 **Fear**  
The commotion Pepper kicked up was followed almost at once by a shot. I flinched and nearly dropped the reins. As quick as I could, I brought the horse back under control, tied off, and flung myself off the driver’s seat.  
  
A quick glance into the passenger box settled my fear. The third fellow was sprawled out cold over the lap of the doctor, who was grinning at the thin man.  
  
“Swift thinking, good sir,” he said, spotting me. “I’m afraid you’ve a new bullet-hole in your awning, but I’ll pay for repairs.” He held out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”


	25. 7/24/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This week, a twist: this also fills JWP #8 on Watson's Woes: Prompt: Accidents.

  
  
  
  
  


**Fallow**

First the incident with the wash-water, then the wrong directions, then the accident with the inkwell, and now I’d missed the last train of the day. Holmes expected me on that train. Worse, I had no way to wire him of the change; I knew the village telegraph was broken.

I looked around the landscape, at the few clustered buildings surrounded by fallow fields. The likelihood of finding any means of transport from this village seemed dim, indeed. But I was determined to try. The case would not wait – and neither would Holmes. And spending another night here lacked appeal.

 

**Stutter**

The wagon was old. There was scarcely enough room on the wooden seat for two. And the carter had a pronounced stutter, particularly when speaking to (or of) women. But despite that, he was willing to take me with him to the next village, where they had horses for hire.

At least I believe that is what he told me, and the innkeeper agreed. So I paid him a small fee, and we set out.

Miles seem long when your companion trips over words slower than the horse tramps out paces.

They are even slower when you crack a wheel.

 

**Perfect**

I prefer not to remember the rest of that journey. By the time we reached the next village, my patience was strained to the breaking-point.

But it was on the main road, and boasted a livery stable with horses for hire. I negotiated a reasonable fee, and left within a half-hour on the back of an ugly but sturdy roan.

The gelding had a calm temper and good manners, and its gait was rapid if rougher than I would have desired. We made excellent time – until he pulled up lame, several miles short of my destination.

“Just perfect,” I sighed.

 

**Stumble**

I checked the hooves, and pried loose the nail it had picked up, but the poor beast still limped. I dared not re-mount and add to its woes. Instead, I started walking, the horse pacing alongside as best it could.

Within five minutes, it started raining.

By the time an hour had passed, I was soaked through despite my coat and hat.

Sometime in the second hour, a momentary stumble turned into a mudbath and a turned ankle. Fortunately, my horse did not bolt, but now we had matching limps.

It was pitch-black by the time I reached Holmes’ inn.

 

**Weregild**

I staggered through the door and saw a white-faced Holmes pacing the length of the common-room. He spied me, started, and dropped his cigarette. “Watson!”

Within minutes, Holmes had me in a chair in front of the fire, a hot toddy in my hand, and the promise of a hot bath and a good meal as soon as possible. “Now speak: what happened?”

He listened to my sorry tale of misfortunes, then took my hand. “That weregild of woes spared you a far worse fate, my dear Watson. Your train derailed. They’re still trying to identify the wounded – and dead.” 


	26. 7/31/2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an odd one, folks. No idea where it came from.

  
  
  


**Blackboard**

There is something immediately identifiable about the scent of a boys' school. It is an odor compounded of old buildings, indifferently-washed uniforms, chalk-dust and blackboard slate, mildewing pages and blotting-paper. And over and above everything else, there is the smell of generations of boys, whether ripe from the sports-field or stupefied from days confined to books: the compounded funk of bodies, the near-tangible taste of excitement, mischief, fear, boredom, and essential restlessness.

The smell of the school brought a smile to my face as a thousand happy memories jostled for my attention.

Holmes' expression spoke of a far different story.

  
  


**Daughters**

He observed my curious glance. When he spoke, however, he did not answer the questions that had sprung to my mind – at least, not directly.

"It is a strange way of educating our youth, much less forging boys into the men that are the might of our nation, is it not? And yet it has worked for centuries: sending boys to schools such as this, to freeze and chafe at each other and learn as best they can. Cruel, sometimes, but effective. Yet I cannot help but hope that we do better by our daughters than we do our sons."

  
  


**Opalescent**

"That seems harsh. Do you have such terrible memories of your own school, Holmes?" I asked the question carefully, half-certain my friend would immediately change the subject.

"Some terrible, some wonderful – much as any other boy, I expect," he answered readily enough. The opalescent light of early dawn limned his lean, thoughtful face. "We certainly learn to endure in places such as these, and the principles of fair play drummed into us on the playing-fields are worth far more than any lectures on ethics in our universities. But how many boys actually leave a school having learned how to _think_?"

  
  


**Hoarfrost**

I thought carefully before replying. "You don't mean the habit of study, but that of independent thought and inquiry."

"Exactly, Watson." He gave me a quick smile, but there was something in his eyes akin to hoarfrost: beautiful, icy, and brittle. "For the vast majority of boys, it makes no difference, perhaps. Yet I suspect that along with endurance and sterling character, we inculcate a certain dullness into our souls."

"Some might say dullness is also part of our national character," I replied, but I wondered how that stolidness might have seemed to a boy with art in the blood.

  
  


**Union**

Holmes chuckled. "Practicality, certainly. You yourself are a shining example of that, and the union of the best of the English character: honesty, courage, and an unswerving compass of right and wrong."

"I like to think I did fairly well in my studies," I said wryly, even as Holmes' unusually warm praise warmed my heart. "And as our schools produced such prodigies as yourself and Mycroft, I do not fear a lack of thinking graduates."

"Perhaps not. But here is the light at last! Now we can turn our attention from abstract musings to the cold facts of our case."


	27. 8/7/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Watson!whump, but almost entirely offscreen. In fact, our heroes themselves are not the focus this week, but sometimes it's fun to see them out of other eyes.

  
  
  
  


**Feeble**

"Drat!"

The feeble curse did little to relieve my feelings, but I didn't dare anything stronger, not with Miss Patterson in the car. Even if I hadn't known better, the glare her brother Ralph gave me would have zipped my lip. "I'm afraid there's something wrong with the car."

"Obviously, Martin," Ralph grumbled.

"We're stuck? Out here?" Miss Patterson looked vaguely alarmed, and one hand crept up to her highly impractical driving hat. "Why, there isn't a soul for miles!"

Ralph snorted. "Hardly, Sophie. I saw a little cottage not two minutes ago. We can walk back and get help."

**Domestic**

"Not likely to be much help out here, unless the Sussex countryside grows mechanics along with chalk downs," I muttered. Still, anything was better than sitting on the side of the road in a broken-down motorcar.

The day was pleasant, and the Pattersons were good walkers. It didn't take us long to reach that cottage. It was weather-beaten but pleasantly domestic in appearance, with neat vegetable beds, blooming floral borders, and buzzing beehives set in a corner of the fenced-in yard.

"It doesn't look as if anyone's home."

An aged tenor voice spoke up from nowhere. "Appearances are often deceiving."

**Slither**

Miss Patterson's exaggerated jump spared me the embarrassment of my undignified squawk. The movement caused her hat to slither to the ground. The tall, elderly gentleman who'd snuck up on us bent stiffly and retrieved it before either Ralph or I could gather our wits. "Yours, I believe," he declared, offering it to her with a rheumatic flourish.

"Yes, thank you." She gave the old gent a blinding smile. "We're sorry to intrude, but our motor-car broke down."

"So I observed," the man said dryly. "Come along and make yourselves comfortable. I'll send the chore-boy to the village for help."

**Tranquility**

"That's awfully good of you," I thanked him, but there was something ironic in the keen, grey-eyed gaze that made usual pleasantries feel particularly awkward. I blundered on. "It's very quiet here."

"After the recent unpleasantness, some of us have a renewed appreciation for tranquility." There was a soft edge to the words that I did not understand until I spotted a second man sitting in a basket-chair set in the most sheltered corner of the garden. His hair and moustache were quite white, and he looked terribly frail. But his eyes brightened as they registered us.

"Oh, hullo! Visitors!"

**Common**

He struggled painfully to his feet with the help of a thick cane. But his handshake was sturdy, and his smile welcoming.

The War ended before I'd been a month in the Army, but even so, I recognized the true officer bearing. The way Ralph went all proper was another hint.

Sick – or still recovering – or just old, regardless, the second fellow was a charming host. Time flew by, aided by a pot of tea, scones, and some amazing honey.

"There was something not quite common about those two," Miss Patterson mused afterwards. "And gracious, we never learned their names!"


	28. 8/14/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Large amounts of physical violence and deliberately inflicted harm. There is Watson!whumpage, oh my yes. In fact this sequence of drabbles might prove disturbing to sensitive readers. Please view (or not) accordingly.

  
  
  
  


**Slide**

Strident voices raised in argument. Heavy-booted feet thudded towards me. I felt a rough hand slide underneath my chin and jerk upwards.

One eye was swollen almost closed, but I could still see out of the other to recognize the worst of my interrogators.  He leaned in close, his brutish features and narrow eyes alight with malice. “Awake, are ya, doctor? That’s good, that is. Ya ready to talk?” Spittle flew from his lips along with his strangely-accented words.

I knew what they wanted. They had spent hours already trying to force me to speak.

I could not tell them.

 

**Massage**

Not just would not – although I’d lay down my life before I would voluntarily betray my friend. Torture, however, can break any man, given enough time. I was under no illusions that I was any different.

No, I _could_ not – for I had no idea where Holmes was, or what he knew. As usual, he had not confided all to me. His love of the dramatic often irritated me, but now I blessed it, for it spared me any chance of inadvertent betrayal.

I took a painful breath while surreptitiously attempting to massage some feeling back into my fingers.

“No.”

 

**Softly**

The word did not come out as strongly as I would have liked. My mouth was too bruised, my lips cut by repeated blows. But it was enough to freeze the brute menacing me into a dangerous stillness. The others in the basement fell quiet.

“What did ya say?” he asked softly.

“Really, Doctor Watson,” another voice cut in before I could find breath to repeat my refusal.  Sandres sauntered into view, sneering. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable.  You must have realized there is no hope of rescue. Tell us what we want to know and spare yourself further pain.”

 

**Defense**

I glared at him with all the defiance I could muster. “You will be caught.”

Bound as I was, I had no defense against the savage blow the brute gave me, or the kick Sandres delivered to my already-injured ribs. “No, we will not,” he continued, almost conversationally, while I struggled for breath. “Your disappearance and death will be blamed on Huntsman, with whom you were last seen.  Nothing will trace back to us. And even if you choose not to cooperate, we will find a way to deal with Holmes.” He smiled mockingly. “So speak, and end your torment.”

 

**General**

Sandres was right about one thing. I could still choose not to cooperate, decide to suffer whatever torment he and his minions would inflict upon my body. Better that than the greater agony of turning my back on everything I had ever believed, every principle I had tried to live by, even if it brought a swift end.

I did not say another word. I tried to remain silent, even as the individual pain of each blow turned into a general, blazing agony that consumed me.  Another kick, and something cracked within my chest.

The room darkened and faded away.


	29. 8/21/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These drabbles continue last week's storyline (as much as this week's words would allow; it was a real stretch). There is Watson!whumpage, or at least the aftermath thereof. There is also Holmes rambling.

  
  
  
  
  
**Bach**  
The familiar feel of my violin under my chin was like a caress, soothing me as much as the music I coaxed from its strings. Mendelsohn would have been my first choice, but the head matron had expressed a strong preference for Bach. And as I was only able to play at her sufferance, Bach it must be.  
  
The concerto was meant for two violins and an orchestra. I found that bitterly ironic. I played as beautifully as I possibly could, but still I could hear the gaping holes in the music, as I felt them in my own chest.  
  
  
 **Liberty**  
I finished the second movement and paused, glancing down at the bed.  
  
A pain-fogged but alert gaze met my own. I dropped my bow in shock. "Watson!"  
  
My violin joined the bow at the foot of Watson's hospital mattress. I lunged forward and placed a gentle hand under Watson's stubble-roughened chin. One of Watson's eyes was still too swollen to open properly, but the other tracked my movements well enough. Better yet, his skin felt merely warm, not blazing with fever.  
  
Watson's good eye widened, and I belatedly realized the liberty I had just taken. No matter. He was awake!  
  
  
 **Bath**  
"It's about time, my dear fellow. No, don't try to speak just yet, or move," I admonished as I rang the bell for the matron. "You've several cracked ribs along with your other injuries, and you've had quite the fever, but you'll be all right now that you're awake." I was aware that I was babbling, most uncharacteristically too, but the relief I felt at seeing him conscious once more went to my head like the finest champagne after a three-day fast.  
  
And it really was, in essence; I had barely eaten or slept, and I desperately needed a bath.  
  
  
 **Default**  
The doctor who examined Watson was cautiously optimistic afterwards. "Now that the fever has broken, he has a good chance of recovery."  
  
I refused to acknowledge the chance he would not. "When can he return home?"  
  
"If he continues to improve, perhaps by the end of the week."  
  
The bruising on Watson's face made him difficult to read, but I thought he looked alarmed. After the doctor left, I asked him what was amiss.  
  
"A week in hospital… I'm afraid my funds are low. I might have to default on my half of the rent," he mumbled.  
  
My jaw dropped.  
  
  
 **Anchorage**  
 _How_ Watson could think this, I had no idea. Yet it was clear that not only had this idea occurred to him, doubt –and shame – had found deep anchorage in his mind.  
  
Knowing his stubborn pride, I chose my words carefully. "My dear Watson, your ordeal must have caused you to forget the reward offered in this case on top of my usual fee. Since your involvement proved crucial to the successful resolution, half of that money is yours."  
  
 _It is ours_ , I wanted to say. _You need never worry_. But this was not the place to speak of partnership.  
  



	30. 8/28/12

  
**Posterity**  
As a boy, I never questioned the path before me. Oh, the specifics were yet to be determined. But I assumed the common fate of the landless British male would be mine: a career, then a wife, then children; eventually the careful handing down of a life well-lived as an endowment to posterity.  
  
It was what I was born and bred to expect. It was the path of success, of normal life.  
  
My legacy will be quite different. I will leave behind money and property, yes, but my patrimony is enshrined in words, deeds, and an immortalized friendship, not flesh.  
  
  
 **Devour**  
"Here. This should help."  
  
"For the love of God, Watson, no! I am in agony."  
  
"And I am here to help ease it, Holmes. The warm flannel will not place any extra pressure on your abdomen, and it will ease you almost as well as a hot-water bottle. And a teaspoon of ginger syrup, or a peppermint lozenge…"  
  
"You're mad!"  
  
"Hardly, Holmes. I am a trained medical professional - "  
  
"Hah!"  
  
" – with a surfeit of experience with patients who have eaten too many sweets. If you devour an entire platter's worth of Mrs. Hudson's shortbread, you must expect consequences."  
  
  
 **Ordain**  
Perhaps I had something to atone for in my youth. Or maybe it was some kind of test, like Job. More likely, I simply outsmarted myself: I saw the opportunities, and foolishly assumed that I was up to the consequences.  
  
Whatever the truth of the matter, there it was: within a year, the vast majority of other Inspectors had chosen to ordain me as their preferred Holmes-handler. If the case involved any interaction with the useful – and infernally annoying – amateur, I wound up with it on my docket, nine times out of ten.  
  
A professional blessing, but a personal curse.  
  
  
 **Grandfather**  
Even after revealing his brother Mycroft's existence to me, Holmes remained reticent about his family life and background. He would speak occasionally of his grandmother, and once took me to a small art exhibition that featured several of Vernet's paintings. But of his immediate relations, other than his brother – of his mother, father, grandfather – and about his home life, he remained silent, even when I tried to draw him out.  
  
Small wonder, then, that I had no idea he had any _cousins_ , much less knew enough to connect the eager, accommodating, vaguely familiar-looking young Dr. Verner with my suddenly-resurrected friend.  
  
  
 **Establish**  
In my accounts of Holmes' cases, I took pains to establish his character in the eyes of the public. I portrayed him as supremely intelligent, eccentric, socially indifferent, and generally reserved, holding himself remote from commonplace cares of most people. In short, I showed him as a dangerous foe, a brave man, and for a fortunate few, a rare (if aggravating) friend.  
  
All these things were true, in part. But only in part.  
  
I never gave the public a true portrait of Holmes, not the man I knew and valued better than any. Such knowledge was mine alone to cherish.


	31. 9/4/12

  
  
**Leash**  
As Mr. Holmes went to work, examining every inch of the scene, I took the opportunity to approach Dr. Watson. I sidled up to him casually and asked if he had a match handy.  
  
"A word in your ear, Doctor," I murmured as he obligingly reached into his vest pocket. "Mr. Holmes should keep his questions to a minimum. In fact, you'd be doing him a favor if you can keep all of his behaviors on a tight leash."  
  
The doctor gave me a half-questioning, half-rueful look. "I think you overestimate my influence, Constable."  
  
"No, I don't think I do."  
  
  
 **Welfare**  
The doctor's expression shifted to one of mild inquiry, quite at odds with the sharp tone of concern lacing the words pitched to reach only as far as my ears. "Leaving aside the question of my ability to influence Holmes, why would you ask such a thing? Holmes is here to investigate, which involves inquiry."  
  
"Yes, but he might find things go smoother if he plays his cards close to his vest," I muttered back while accepting the match-case. "Better for his welfare, too." I lit my cigarette and returned the box. "Thank you."  
  
Dr. Watson smiled. "Thank _you,_ Constable."  
  
  
 **Struggle**  
What to publish, and what to keep back?  
  
In some matters, the choice is painfully obvious. Cases where no clear solution was ever found, where justice miscarried, or where I was not present; those will forever remain in my dispatch-box.  
  
Other decisions, however, are more of a struggle. I want to portray Holmes as he was, but at the same time, I want the world to understand the enormous loss it sustained the day he plunged into Reichenbach Fall.  
  
He is no longer here to object to his rightful fame. And words are now all that I can give him.  
  
  
 **Blessings**  
My childhood nurse was fond of fairy-tales. Even as a child, I knew they were nonsense, and Mycroft gently disabused me of any lingering illusions. But all the same, some aspects of those tales stayed with me. Specifically, my young fancy was tickled by the notion of fairy-gifts bestowed in the cradle.  
  
I used to amuse myself by imagining the eldritch crone who sprinkled blessings over the Holmes bassinet. She must have had a dire sense of humor, to so generously ladle intelligence, clear-sightedness, and rationality over us, without the slightest bit of beauty or tact to leaven the mix.  
  
  
 **Candle**  
Watson set down the paper with a sigh.  
  
I peered at him over the top of my glasses. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I like to think that we did some good in our time, but then I think of the War, and the state of the world today, and I have to wonder if we managed anything at all."  
  
"My dear fellow." I struggled upright and limped over to place a hand on Watson's shoulder. "We may have only lit a candle against the darkness, but it burns on, thanks to your stories. In the end, who can ask more than that?"


End file.
